The Fantasy I Don’t Dare Tell Anyone

There’s one thing I’ve never told anyone. Not my partner, not my friends, not even the diary I write in when I can’t sleep. It’s something that lives only in my head, and precisely for that reason it scares me so much to put it into words. But I’ve been turning it over for weeks, and I suppose writing it is the only way to look it straight in the face.

My name is Lucía. I’m in my twenties, with a face that still gets me asked for ID in bars and a body that, by contrast, has nothing girlish about it. Big tits, a round ass, a cunt that gets wet with such ease it sometimes pisses me off. And for a while now, especially on the days when desire hits me out of nowhere, I fantasize about something I would never allow in real life. I fantasize about losing control completely.

It always starts the same way. I’m alone in the apartment, the afternoon fading, orange light slanting in through the window. My body is burning from the inside out, that kind of heat nothing can soothe, throbbing between my legs and leaving me short of breath. My hand is already under my underwear before I realize it, fingers sliding between swollen lips that are begging for more. And then, in my head, he appears.

He doesn’t have a face. I never give him one, because the face doesn’t matter. What matters is the size: tall, broad, a presence that fills the room before he even touches me. And what matters most of all is the cock. In my fantasy I know it’s huge before I even see it, I can guess it thick and heavy inside his pants, swollen for me. In my fantasy there’s no knocking, no introductions, no coffee first. He’s simply there, behind me, and before I can react his hands are already gripping my waist.

—Keep still —he says, and his voice runs down my spine like a shiver.

I resist. That’s the part that’s so hard to confess: in the fantasy I resist, I struggle, I tell him no. But it’s a no neither of us believes. It’s permission disguised as refusal, the only way I can let myself go without feeling guilty. He knows it. And I know he knows it. He knows I’m soaked, he knows two fingers would slide in at once, he knows if he turned me around and put his cock in my mouth I’d open up without thinking.

***

He pushes me against the edge of the bed. The mattress catches my hip, cold beneath the thin fabric of my dress, and I feel his whole weight settling over me, pinning me in place. It isn’t violence: it’s restraint. The difference, in my head, is enormous. I want him to hold me like that, not let me get away, decide for me what I don’t dare ask for out loud.

—Please —I murmur against the sheet, and even I don’t know if I’m asking him to stop or to keep going.

One of his hands bunches my hair into a fist and tugs, slowly, until he has my neck arched back. It’s that pull that sets me on fire. The slight sting on my scalp, the command to lift my face, the feeling that my body no longer belongs entirely to me. I close my eyes and let out a sound I don’t recognize as mine.

His other hand hikes my dress up from behind with no gentleness at all. Cool air strikes my bare skin and raises goosebumps all over me. I’m not wearing panties—in the fantasy I never am—and I can feel him looking at me, hear the low growl slip out of him at the sight of my ass lifted and my cunt shining between my thighs. He drags two fingers through my slit, from bottom to top, very slowly, gathering my wetness and smearing it everywhere as if he were marking me.

—You’re dripping —he says—. And you still look like you want to tell me no.

He slides the two fingers in at once, to the knuckles, and I scream into the sheet. He moves them inside with his palm facing up, searching for that spot even I don’t always find, and when he hits it I arch violently. His thumb presses my clit, tracing hard circles, merciless, while the two fingers fuck me at a rhythm that has me drooling onto the fabric.

—Beg —he orders.

—No —I gasp, though my hips are moving on their own against his hand.

He gives a low laugh. He pulls his fingers out, watches them shine, and runs them over my lips until he forces my mouth open. He makes me suck myself. I taste myself on my tongue, salty and thick, and something inside me breaks. I lick his fingers like they’re something else, and he understands perfectly.

I can feel him behind me, hard against me, a heavy, hot promise pressed right where I need it most. He takes his cock out—I don’t see it, but I feel it settle between my ass cheeks, thick, burning, throbbing—and drags it up and down through my soaked slit, sliding, not entering yet. I clamp my thighs together on pure reflex, but he pries them open with his knee, spreading me without asking permission.

—Look at yourself —he says—. You say no and you’re shaking. Lift your ass higher.

He’s right. In the fantasy he’s always right. My body betrays me with every movement: my hips tilting back in search of him, the wetness he finds with the tip of his cock and the low, satisfied laugh it pulls from him. He rests right at the entrance, pressing only slightly, and I thrust back without being able to stop myself. I bury my face in the sheet so I won’t hear myself.

***

He goes in all at once, without warning, all the way to the hilt, and I scream into the mattress. The stretch splits me open in two, too much too fast, too deep. For a second the pain is real even in the fantasy, that impossible mix of burning and of something opening in places I never thought could be reached. I feel every vein of his cock against my walls, the head crushed against a spot so deep it steals my breath. And immediately, beneath that pain, comes the filthy rush of pleasure that has me clenching my fists in the sheet.

—It’s too much —I gasp—. You’re ripping me in half. It won’t go in, it won’t go in…

—Take it —he answers, and drives in again, deeper, as if he wants to leave a mark—. You’ve already got all of it. It’s all the way in. Now I’m going to make you feel it.

He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and slams back in with a hard thrust. And again. And again. His hips crash into mine and the room fills with that raw, wet sound—skin on skin, my cunt sloshing around his cock—that in my head I repeat until I’m numb. Every thrust drives me into the bed, steals my air, forces me to take him all the way. I feel the tip battering my depths, forcing my insides to make room for him, feel saliva slip from the corner of my mouth as I bite the fabric.

—These hips weren’t made for saying no —he growls, his fingers digging into the flesh of my ass—. They were made for this. For taking cock. Look how you swallow it, look at yourself.

He spanks me. Hard. The sting mixes with pleasure and makes me moan louder. He hits the same spot again, and again, and I feel my skin burning and my cunt answering by clenching greedily around him all the more. He notices and laughs.

—Slut —he murmurs, almost tenderly—. It’s all your fault I can’t stop.

That’s the dark part, the part I really have trouble admitting. In my fantasy he talks about filling me, claiming me, leaving something inside me that can’t be taken back. He talks about coming all the way in. About getting me pregnant. And I, who in real life am obsessively careful, who would never leave anything to chance, come undone at hearing him say it. It’s total surrender. It’s giving away the very last thing a person controls.

—I don’t want to —I lie, voice breaking—. Not inside. Not like that.

—Your body says something else —he answers, and yanks my hair again to force my back to arch—. Your cunt is begging me to come inside. It tightens every time I say it. Feel it? There. Again.

***

And my body, in fact, says something else. I feel it clench around him with a greed that shames me, contracting with every thrust as if it doesn’t want to let go. No matter how much I kick and claw at the sheets in the scene, inside I’m wide open, melted, ready. That contradiction is the heart of the whole fantasy: the struggle that is really surrender, the no that beats with every yes.

He yanks out all at once, flips me over as if I weighed nothing, and throws me onto my back on the mattress. Before I can protest, my knees are already pushed up to my chest, folded in half, and he sinks his cock into me again, all the way. From that angle he enters differently, deeper, into a place no one has ever touched me before. I scream. He covers my mouth with his hand.

—Quiet —he says, and keeps driving in, his palm pressed over my lips and his eyes locked on mine.

I look up at him from below, tears rising from the pleasure, and I lick his palm, and he smiles. He only lets go of my mouth to bring that hand down to my throat and squeeze just enough for me to feel the threat and not the hurt, while he keeps fucking me hard. The moans break in my throat and my orgasm builds in my belly like a storm.

—You’re going to come with my hand on your throat, bitch —he pants—. And then I’m going to come. Inside. Every last drop.

The rhythm turns brutal, unhinged, his thighs slamming against mine, his balls hitting my ass, his breathing turning into short growls against my face. I can’t make sentences anymore, only sounds: gasps, whimpers, a plea that breaks in half. He lowers his free hand between us and finds my clit with his thumb, crushing it, circling it while he pounds into me, and the heat rises from my belly to my chest, unstoppable.

—You’re going to take everything —he says, and his voice trembles—. Every last drop. And you’re going to squeeze it tight so nothing spills out.

When I feel him shudder, when his rhythm breaks and he drives deep to empty himself inside me, the orgasm hits me like a blow. It shakes me to the core, leaves me trembling, screaming into his hand while he throbs inside me beat after beat. I feel the hot spurts striking me from within, one after another, that imagined sensation of thick semen filling me until I overflow, that sense of being marked that is exactly what my fantasy is after. My cunt squeezes him greedily, contracting around his cock as if it wants to milk him dry, and he groans low, buried to the hilt, waiting for me to finish wringing him out.

He stays inside for a long while, draped over me, letting me feel his cock still pulsing, letting the semen settle in me. When he finally withdraws, I feel a warm thread slipping between my thighs and he covers it with his hand, pushing it back inside with two fingers.

—Not a drop —he repeats—. All inside.

***

In the full version of my fantasy he doesn’t stop there. He turns me over again, puts me on my stomach, looks me in the eyes from above for the first time, and starts all over, slower now, as if we had all night. His cock hardens inside me again, slick in the mix of fluids he himself left behind, and that sticky sound turns me on more than I’m willing to admit. By then I’m not even pretending to resist: my hips move on their own, searching for him, and I’m the one begging for more in that hoarse voice that doesn’t sound like mine.

—Again —I tell him, and it’s no longer a no—. Again. Deeper. More.

I climb on top of him, dig my hands into his chest and spear myself on him, lowering myself slowly until my ass slams against his thighs. I start moving, riding him, watching my belly rise and fall over his cock buried inside me. He grabs my tits, squeezes them, pinches my nipples until I scream, and tells me not to stop, to milk him for every last drop he has left.

I imagine my belly filling, the absurd, forbidden idea of getting pregnant by a nameless stranger, and instead of horror what I feel is a sweet vertigo, the fantasy taken to its most extreme limit. I come again, against my will, trembling on top of him, and he takes the chance to grab my hips and drive me down hard while he spills inside me a second time. It’s precisely because I know I would never let it happen for real that I can allow it in my head. It’s safe exactly because it’s impossible.

And then I open my eyes.

The room is empty again. The orange light has already gone and only the blue half-light of dead afternoon remains. I’m alone, breathing hard, one hand still between my legs and my fingers soaked with my own come, my heart battering my ribs. There’s no faceless brute, no one holding my hair, no huge cock emptying itself inside me, nobody whispering all those terrible things in my ear that melt me. It’s only me, my imagination, and that pulse that takes a long while to calm between my thighs.

***

It embarrasses me to admit it, but I think I need this fantasy precisely because my real life is the opposite. I’m the one who organizes, the one who decides, the one who never loosens her grip. At work, in my relationship, in every corner of my day I’m the one who has everything under control. And I suppose, somewhere, part of me is tired of being in charge. She wants, even if only for a few stolen minutes, not to have to choose anything. She wants someone to grab her by the hair, spread her legs, and decide for her.

That’s why I invent that man who decides for me. That’s why I lend him words I would never accept from a real lover. Inside my head I can say no and have my no not count, I can let a stranger fill me and wake up clean, I can come five times in a row and not have to explain anything to anyone. Because I’m the one writing the script, I’m the one assigning the roles, I’m the absolute owner of every detail. Submission, paradoxically, is the only territory where I’m completely in charge.

I don’t know if I’ll ever dare tell my partner. Maybe it’ll scare him, maybe he’ll understand, maybe—and this is the possibility that makes my pulse race the most—he’ll want to help me act it out carefully, with safe words, with the trust you only have with someone who loves you. I imagine telling him in a low voice, face burning, describing how I want him to hold me, how I want him to talk to me, how I want him to fuck me while calling me a slut in my ear, and the mere idea of saying it out loud already leaves me breathless.

For now this is enough for me: the dim light, my imagination, the hand that knows the way by heart, two fingers inside my cunt and a thumb pressing my clit until I shudder. Every night the stranger comes back, holds me, opens me, fills me, whispers all the things I shouldn’t want. And every night, when I open my eyes and find myself alone with my sticky hand between my legs, I smile in the dark. Because it’s my fantasy, mine alone, and in there I’m not hurting anyone. Not even myself.